Chapter 2- Possibilities

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The rest of the day crawls by with no urgency.

By 1:30pm, I am ready to fake a seizure and be wheeled to sleep. Thank the Lords it's Friday.

"Fuck off, prissy shit,"

Okay. I was leaving anyway.

"Look at how small and lanky he is. Ew,"

Thanks Rebecca. I really love our infuriatingly short chats.

"Fucking foreigner; go home!"

I would if I could, mate

"Look at that, he'd be perfect!"

Whatever-... wait, what?

I spin around in the middle of the hallway, wincing at the impatient curses that are thrown my way.

Leaning against the Grade 10 lockers is a young man with dark, stylish hair and a shredded leather jacket. His body posture suggests he has a lot hidden underneath that people want, and he knows it. The smirk is a dead giveaway too.

"Hey there, skinny. You lost?"

I blush like an adolescent female as I wade my way through the crowd to stand in front of him. "I-I'm sorry. I thought I heard you say something... nice. I must have misheard you-,"

His eyes soften a little bit and I can feel my heart pounding in my chest.

Am I making a friend? Is he not going to steal my homework and dump me in a rubbish bin?

"You heard me right, kid," he replies gruffly, a huge smile gracing his pretty features. "The name's Downey," I decide not to voice my opinion of his poor grammar.

"Hiddleston," I exhale. Hallelujah. Most bullies don't waste time introducing themselves. "Or, Thomas, I suppose."

"Okay, Tommy. I'm Robert."


He pats me on the back and hands me an A4 piece of laminated paper. I gaze at him in confusion but he just taps his wonderfully sculptured nose. "Read it; think about it. Come and see me,"

For a moment, I'm concerned I just had an unintentional meeting with some kind of thug or, heavens forbid, a prostitute. If I thought the kids here had power over me before...

But it does not contain any sketchy images or hidden phone numbers. It's quite the opposite, actually.

Huge, neon cursive, dramatic backdrops and pretty young people adorn this thing. I am astounded into silence for a while, just stroking the designs with my fingertips. It claims that I can move into the Performing Arts flat, with many other teenagers similar in age.

Great. I won't have to be taken into custody.

The memory of stumbling cross my sister's letter makes my heart constrict painfully. Without reading any more, I fold the paper neatly and place it inside my pant pocket.

"It will be alright," I sniff. People around me laugh and point their fingers. "It will get better,"

FYI: This is what Tommy looks like in this story.

FYI: This is what Tommy looks like in this story

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